[When Reynir says they'd both been cute, Onni exhales a soft sigh, eyes sinking shut. They had been, yes, but most children are pretty cute, but he's not sure why that seems notable to Reynir. Maybe just another way that their worldviews are different. But he can feel the fondness from Reynir just as clearly as he can see it on his face, and it leaves him feeling...strange. He's not used to being the object of most of the things Reynir feels about him or the way he treats him. It isn't that Onni has never been loved or cared for, but he's not sure if it's ever been quite like this.
When Reynir tells him that he has memories like that, where he knows that his father taught him to knit but he doesn't remember any specific times, or when it was, or how old he'd been, and says that that's normal, Onni blinks and nods. That's a bit of a relief, though he still thinks that he probably remembers less than most people do about what had happened before he was 15.]
I see. Well, that's a bit of a relief.
[Frowning a little, he looks down at the wreath again, pale lashes shading his eyes while he considers it, tries to work out how he feels about all of it. He can't get the image of Tuuri, so small and clumsy and sweet, digging her fingers deep into his hair and pulling at it, trying to comfort him, and he misses her deeply, profoundly, achingly, like part of him has been lopped off and ground up. Squeezing his eyes shut, he takes a few short shaky breaths and tries to push it down.]
Ah. Um, yes. My grandmother...
[The change of track is a little difficult, but he takes a few more breaths and uses his focus on the talk of magic and his grandmother to try to distract himself from the yawning pit of grief.]
She was...practical. She wanted us to do it the right way. She was born just after the Rash appeared, she grew up in the worst of it, so she always had this attitude of needing to survive above everything else. If I didn't know how to do the magic properly, I couldn't defend myself against a Beast or Troll, and I would die.
[Exhaling again, he shakes his head, his mouth quirking just a little at the corners.]
It was surprising when they worked out that I was able to do what I could do. But in the end it didn't matter much. She stopped training me when Lalli turned out to be a mage too, but Immune.
no subject
When Reynir tells him that he has memories like that, where he knows that his father taught him to knit but he doesn't remember any specific times, or when it was, or how old he'd been, and says that that's normal, Onni blinks and nods. That's a bit of a relief, though he still thinks that he probably remembers less than most people do about what had happened before he was 15.]
I see. Well, that's a bit of a relief.
[Frowning a little, he looks down at the wreath again, pale lashes shading his eyes while he considers it, tries to work out how he feels about all of it. He can't get the image of Tuuri, so small and clumsy and sweet, digging her fingers deep into his hair and pulling at it, trying to comfort him, and he misses her deeply, profoundly, achingly, like part of him has been lopped off and ground up. Squeezing his eyes shut, he takes a few short shaky breaths and tries to push it down.]
Ah. Um, yes. My grandmother...
[The change of track is a little difficult, but he takes a few more breaths and uses his focus on the talk of magic and his grandmother to try to distract himself from the yawning pit of grief.]
She was...practical. She wanted us to do it the right way. She was born just after the Rash appeared, she grew up in the worst of it, so she always had this attitude of needing to survive above everything else. If I didn't know how to do the magic properly, I couldn't defend myself against a Beast or Troll, and I would die.
[Exhaling again, he shakes his head, his mouth quirking just a little at the corners.]
It was surprising when they worked out that I was able to do what I could do. But in the end it didn't matter much. She stopped training me when Lalli turned out to be a mage too, but Immune.